


A Lonesome, Drunken, Dwarven Sailor

by sothisiswhatsnext



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:49:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22228936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sothisiswhatsnext/pseuds/sothisiswhatsnext
Summary: Zolf went to tell off a god. He found more than he expected.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	A Lonesome, Drunken, Dwarven Sailor

**Author's Note:**

> i never really expected to write fanfic but i love this podcast so dang much  
> started out as a theory, spiraled into angst, here you go!

He gave up on trying to sing hours ago.

This wasn’t a mission for singing. Technically, it was a mission. Not one he’d been given, but he knew people would appreciate it. Or at least, the information it would give him.

He’d been soaked to the bone for ages. The boat had always been slick, even as he built it, cursing the nicks and bruises he gained as he lashed it together from rubbish wood.

That’s how he was told to please Poseidon, after all. Sailing into an immense storm on something that barely held together. It’d worked before.

Zolf was spooling out line when the boom swung, hit him upside the head, and he fell off the boat. He didn’t even have time to curse his mistake, it was just white-hot pain and then the _thud_ of hitting the water.

He was lashed on. ‘Course he was lashed on. But that didn’t make sinking into depths, vision blurry, struggling to remember he couldn’t breathe underwater, any easier.

And all at once, he _could_ breathe.

He cursed under his breath, all the things he’d learned as a sailor, because he knew what that meant.

There were no words. There never were, with his rubbish god. Just impressions.

He knew what it meant. Poseidon was welcoming him back.

But he wouldn’t stand for it, even if it meant he would never stand again.

And he yelled into the depths of the ocean. He’d been thinking his words over for a very long time – what would he say, when he found this? Any of those things he’d said before, or to Hamid?

In the end, there weren’t any words. He just screamed, and Poseidon, helpful to a fault, knew what he meant.

No more legs. No more air. As quickly as it had appeared, the calm was gone, and he got a nasty lungful of salt.

Coughing underwater doesn’t do you any good. Yes, the water’s out, but it hasn’t been replaced with anything breathable once it’s gone. Try telling that to reflexes, even after years of being told it yourself.

There was nothing in his lungs. He was still dizzy with pain. He floundered for the line, and didn’t find it – everything was spinning, and his arms wouldn’t work.

He knew what this meant. ‘Course he did. He’d seen it happen.

He’d felt it. But before, he’d made a different choice.

He was going to die, underwater, away from everyone he knew and loved. He hadn’t told anyone he was going – who was there to tell? If only there had been a way to get a message to-

It was like a switch flipped inside his head, or like he’d been struck by lightning.

_He was going to make it, and not because he needed saving. Not this time._

The decision burning through his soul burst out around him and he gasped a lungful of clean air. The dizziness was gone. Nothing was spinning. No strangely calm seas. Just him, a line, and the knowledge he would get through this.

The wood of his boat knocked into his strewn-out hand and he grabbed it, hauling himself aboard. He lay collapsed on the deck, coughing up the remainders of seawater, until a line drifted past his head and he seized it.

Time to go back. Time to live.

Zolf tacked his craft into a tight circle, and started looking for landmarks.

A deep hum built in his chest until he started a new song – not a shanty, as he had sung earlier, but something new, something slower and braver. A song of hope.


End file.
